The Bee's Sting
by chefbruno
Summary: Sherlock tracks a notorious thief while John falls in love.
1. Chapter 1

Part 1

It was the beginning of what would be one of the hottest summers ever recorded in London. I was spending as much time as I possibly could outside the house because the heat sent my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, into a frenzy. Evidently the heat affected the 'criminal classes,' as he called them, and made them lethargic. My theory is that he refuses to take cases in the summer because he is unable to wear the long coat he is so overly fond of. Back at Baker Street I am sure he was either pacing, yelling at the television, shooting random objects with his revolver, tearing the place apart looking for cigarettes, or some combination of these activities. I once returned to find all the furniture rearranged and the books put in alphabetical order by their fiftieth word. During these times he becomes even more arrogant and rude than ever, if that is possible.

I had met my old medical school friend Mike Stamford, or just Stamford, as most people called him, at a pub. I was feeling more and more disheartened by the pub-scene as of late, but Stamford was determined to relive his glory days, part of which was staying up till all hours of the night and drinking way too much. I packed Stamford into a cab and decided to walk back to Baker Street as I was only a little less than two miles away and it had finally turned into a cool evening. As I approached a night club I could hear the sounds of a brawl taking place within. I was utterly surprised, however, when Sherlock was thrown out onto the sidewalk right in front of me. He was rather banged up but still looked sharp in his lightweight wool pants and sport coat of a medium heather grey and dark collared shirt as he always wore.

"John, I've been looking for you," he said, still on the ground.

"No you haven't," I said.

"How do you know?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes; you always know where to look, and a seedy night club is not it." He stood up and brushed himself off.

"Well, either way I'm glad to have found you."

"And why is that?"

"Beautiful night, isn't it?"

"Yes. I had decided to walk home."

"Splendid! I'll join you!"

"So what's with the night club?"

"Just gathering information."

"Oh, so you had something come up then? A case?"

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

"Well, I thought if I couldn't find a case then maybe I could start one," he said with a sly smile coming across his face. I had to chuckle at that. It was good to know that perhaps some of the tension had left him.

"Donovan will be ecstatic."

A few days went by. I had continued on with a few of my patients from when I worked at the clinic during Sherlock's absence, just to keep up my skills, and was in and out of the flat. I also noticed that Sherlock was in and out just as much as I was. When he wasn't out he was busy looking at specimens in his microscope, conducting little experiments, and looking up information in a number of books and on the internet. It was strange of him to be so silent on a subject. Normally he would at least tell me what he was looking into, even if he did not require my help on the case. I read the papers and watched the news diligently, looking for some hint as to what he might be into, but I did not see anything that would require his unique talents. Finally one morning my curiosity got the best of me.

"What have you been working on?" I asked.

"What?"

"I asked what you have been working on. You seem to be rather engrossed by it. Can I help in any way?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Just a little study I'm doing, on pavements."

"Pavements. Really." Sherlock could tell an excellent lie if he needed to, but if you could catch him off guard you could always tell. "I've nothing much to do this morning; mind if I read what you have so far."

"It's much too boring, I'm sure."

"I'm sure as well, but it always does me good to read your work."

"No, not this time."

"Why not?"

He gave a deep sigh. Up until this point he had not even looked up from his microscope. "Listen John, what I'm working on right now is rather sensitive and I don't want it broadcast to the whole world."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Your blog."

"My blog? What does my blog have to do with anything?"

"When you don't have much going on you tend to put every detail of _my_ life in your blog."

"That is not true. You know that's not true."

"Really? What about when I was working the Ashland case?"

"All I said was that I had been up to Scotland and I happened to mention that you were there as well."

"And the murderer panicked, killed two more people and almost got away!"

"He killed two more people 'cause you thought it was the deli owner!"

"I did not think it was the deli owner!"

"You don't trust me!"

"Of course I trust you. If I didn't trust you I would have kicked you out by now."

"So why don't you just ask me not to post whatever you're working on!"

"Because it's too important! It simply can't get out!"

"Oh! I see! I see! What about the one case over in Covent Garden, the one with the blue Mini Cooper? I never mentioned that one like you asked!"

"Mycroft ordered you not to mention that one!" We were both full on shouting by this point.

"So you think I'll listen to Mycroft but not to you?"

"Yes! Country first and all with you!"

"Me! You don't trust me! This from the person who locked me in a lab, who made me go talk to a dead woman's brother when he perfectly well knew the solution! This from the person who couldn't even tell me he was still alive!"

"I had to do those things!"

Just then the doorbell rang. Sherlock was closer to the door at this point but just stood there staring at me. We stood there in silence for some time. Then the doorbell rang again.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled.

"She's on holiday, visiting her sister. I'll get it."

"Really? Are you sure?"

All I could do was shake my head as I left the room and walked down the stairs. I opened the door to find the most beautiful woman I had ever seen standing behind it. She had long, slightly curled red hair, the clearest light blue eyes, perfect alabaster skin, and soft, naturally rosy lips. She wasn't tall, about my height (OK, maybe a little taller than I am), but she wore high heels and simple dress that seemed to elongate her frame. I was so taken with her I hadn't said a word.

"Is this where I will find Sherlock Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes," I croaked, then cleared my throat. "Yes, it is. Please come in."

"If now is not a good time I can come another day."

"No, now is fine. Why wouldn't now be fine?"

"I thought I heard shouting through the open windows there."

"Oh that. That was nothing. It's just up those stairs." I showed her into our room and motioned for her to sit where she liked. "Can I get you anything? Water, coffee, tea?"

"Do you have any wine?"

"Uh, I'll check." It was only a little after nine in the morning. "Sherlock, we have a client."

"Mmmm, too busy," he said. The woman looked dejected and stood up.

"No, no, don't leave. He's just kidding. I'm sure he can spare the time," I said. We happened to have a bottle of wine in the fridge, already uncorked but not that old, so I poured her a glass.

"What I have to say really won't take long. I need to be to work myself in less than an hour. It's a small matter, but I was hoping you would be able to look into it. I'm sure it's not quite as exciting as your other cases."

Sherlock just ignored her. I gave her the wine which she drank by the gulps rather than by sips.

"You can just sit there," I said, desperate to keep her in the room and at least find out who she was. "You tell your story, Sherlock will listen from over there and I'll take notes so we can discuss it later. He's perfectly all right doing two things at once."

"OK. I'm sorry; I didn't get your name."

"John Watson…Dr. John Watson."

"And you work with Mr. Holmes? I'm sorry; I don't follow the papers or news very well.

"Yes, I'm his partner…umm, colleague." Sherlock sighed.

"I'm Mary Morstan. I just moved to London, or just moved back, actually. I'm an actress. Not in movies, but on stage; live musical theatre. I got a part in the premier of a brand new musical in the West End. The lead roll in fact. That's a strange story in itself but that is not why I'm here. I took a flat not too far from the theatre, so I often ride my bicycle to work. Sometimes I walk. Our show isn't open yet and rehearsals have typically started at ten o'clock. Lately, I noticed this about a week ago, when I am between Mercer and Tower Streets a man has been following me."

"Following you," I said. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure of it. I have a rear view mirror on my bicycle and I can plainly see him there. I don't recognize him at all, but he wears a ball cap low across his face and has a full beard, so I have thought it is maybe someone in disguise, but I dare not approach him."

"Does he follow you on the way to the theatre or on the way back?"

"Both. There are other ways I can go, of course, and I often do, but sometimes I just need to go the most direct route and he is always there."

"Dull," said Sherlock, still looking in his microscope and making notes.

"Excuse me?"

"Any Scotland Yarder can clear this up for you. Go to them."

"My father has told me he doesn't want me to go to the police, that may only aggravate things. I was hoping you could solve it more discreetly."

Sherlock gave no response to that. Then he got up and left the room.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Morstan," I started.

"Ms. Morstan," she said.

"Ms. Morstan. He doesn't have the best social skills. I'll talk to him and we'll look into your matter. What time do you generally leave the theatre?"

"It varies. It has been late recently; we're about to open. Maybe ten or eleven."

"Well, you'll be going a different way from here so you will not be by there this morning, but we will look into it this evening. Here is my mobile number. You can feel free to call me with any questions."

"I'll call you when I'm getting ready to leave tonight."

"Oh, yes, excellent!"

She stood up and I walked her out. Her bicycle was next to the door and she rode away with more grace than I have ever seen a person ride a bicycle. I cursed myself for acting like such a bumbling idiot. Then I cursed Sherlock for acting like himself.

I stayed at Baker Street all day that day, only leaving the flat to go get lunch at Speedy's. Sherlock never returned, so I filled the afternoon with television and reading, mostly television. Sherlock and I were way past the point of ever needing to apologize to ach other, not that he knew or ever felt the need to apologize anyway, so I was hopeful that he would return and provide some distraction at least. I hate to state it that way given previous experiences, but that is how I felt. It was around six o'clock when my phone rang, jolting me out of my television-induced daze.

"Dr. Watson?" asked the voice.

"Yes, speaking."

"This is Mary Morstan."

"Oh, Ms. Morstan, hello."

"They've cancelled rehearsals for the rest of the day and say we must leave the theatre for technical reasons, so I will be heading home around seven. I hope you and Sherlock are able to be there."

"Yes, of course. Of course we'll be there."

"Thank you. You can meet me at my flat afterwards if you like." She gave me the address. "Well, I'll see you later then."

"Yes, later. Goodbye."

I didn't see any point in waiting to see if Sherlock would come back, he would probably refuse to go along anyway, so I started off immediately. I had some time to give the block a look around before she would be on her way. I didn't see anyone just milling about, so I decided to visit some of the shops. There were only a couple on the side of the street Ms. Morstan had indicated she usually goes down, plus some offices and a café on the corner. I went across the street and looked that side over, but nothing seemed suspicious, so I went back across to the café and had a drink and waited. The café was on the corner that she was coming from, so I could see her well in advance. As she crossed the street the man with the beard and ball cap came around the corner. I got up and walked after them as fast as I could without seeming too obvious. He stayed a fair distance behind her, and when she crossed the next street he turned the corner down the other cross street. By the time I reached the street there was no sign of him. I walked a ways down the cross street; there was an alley but no person or bicycle around. I started to Ms. Morstan's flat.

"Did you see him?" she asked when she answered the door.

"Yes, just like you said."

"Sherlock didn't come, sent you to do the dirty work."

"Yes, sort of." She gave me a smile; the kind of smile that indicates a person knows more than they are letting on to know.

"I'm starving. There's a great little restaurant down the street. Care to join me?"

"I'd be delighted."

It really was a great little restaurant. White table clothes, soft lighting, and a wall of wine bottles that we happened to get seated next to. The maitre d' came to over to our table as soon as we had sat down.

"Ms. Morstan, so good to see you again. I'll bring you one of our best bottles," he said.

"You must either come here a lot or he is a theatre fan," I said.

"Neither, actually," she said. She stood up and took one of the bottles off the wall; they were all laying down on their sides and I wondered how she knew what she was grabbing, but she did seem to know. She put the bottle down on the table and turned the label to face me. It read "Morstan Estates, fine vineyards since 1712."

"You're family owns vineyards?"

"Among other things, yes."

"Oh."

"So you're thinking 'why is she living in a tiny little flat in London worrying about some guy following her?'"

"No, actually, but that is a much better conversation starter than what I was actually thinking."

"What were you actually thinking then?"

"I'm not going to say now. So why have you chosen to live in London?"

"I want to be on the London stage. I want to make my own way in the world. It's easy for me, of course, knowing full well I always have something to fall back on, but I have not relied on or taken advantage of my family's money or social standing in getting to where I am."

"You want to prove yourself, and master your art. I can understand that."

"I am an only child. My father doted on me and is still over protective of me. He actually puts money into every show I'm in, but only after I have the part. And very few people know about it because it all goes through the company he started, the Red Theatre League, named so because of my red hair. The League is totally legitimate, though. It's a not-for-profit company and invests in lots of other shows besides the ones I'm in. My father is simply their largest anonymous donor, and he also owns the building where the offices are."

"The Red Theatre League. Their offices are on the same street where the man follows you."

"Yes, that's true. I don't have much to do with them. I have a friend, Andrew, who works there that I go see every once in a while, we've been friends since we were five, but he's been in New York for quite some time."

The waiter came with the bottle of wine and we placed our orders. I couldn't quite figure this out. At times it seemed just like a meeting, but then it seemed to be more.

"It can be difficult," I started, not sure where I was going, "to keep up with friends, when there so far away."

"It's not an issue. I'm involved with the show and he met a boy there, madly in love, of course. He always is."

"I know the type."

"What about you and Sherlock?"

"Me and Sherlock... What do you mean?"

"Well, he seemed to be a bit gruff, and I could swear I heard arguing from the open windows."

"Well, we're flatmates, and I help him with his cases, and he is an incredibly difficult person. But he's a genius, so there you have it."

"The rumors aren't true, then?"

"I thought you didn't follow the papers."

"I know how to use the internet."

"The rumors are not true, flatmates and colleagues. Perhaps friends depending on his mood."

"That's good to know." That hung in the air for some time.

"So what about this show you're in? You said it was an interesting story."

"The show is absolutely brilliant. It could be an instant smash hit. The thing is, they're going about it all wrong. Everything is just…odd. Take me for example. I auditioned for the second female role, but they gave me the lead role. Now I can do the lead role; I have the range of voice for it, but I'm just not right for the part. I don't physically look like the part. Unless I'm completely missing something, but I don't think that I am. It's just not coming together like it should."

"The director must see something; he must have a different vision."

"No. The director, she hates me in the part, but the producers refuse to recast. So we all do our best."

"More wine, Ms. Morstan."

"Yes, and its Mary, Dr. Watson."

"John."

"Before I forget, or get too drunk, John, I must thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming to help me even though your 'friend' would not. I already feel much better about it."

"Yes, well, I know his methods well enough, and I'm sure I can get him to help if need be."

"I trust you're capable enough."

It was late when I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock was there, staring into the empty fireplace.

"What did you learn about the man following Ms. Morstan?" he asked as soon as I came into the door. "You've obviously been to see her."

"Yes, I suppose you can smell her perfume on me. She is telling the truth; it all happened exactly as she described it."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, for now."

"You just observed? Oh come on, John! The man is obviously not a threat to her. He only follows her for the one block! If he wanted to hurt her he would have done so by now. I could have cleared the whole thing up in an instant! All you had to do was follow and corner him and ask what his business was. Man in a cheap disguise, obviously not a career criminal. Really!"

I took a deep breath; then I went to bed.

When I woke in the morning the first thing I saw was Sherlock hovering over me.

"Have you ever heard of John Clay?" he asked.

"Good God, Sherlock! What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock."

"What are you doing? How long have you been standing there?"

"I couldn't sleep. Have you ever heard of John Clay?"

"No. Should I have?"

"No. Most people haven't."

"Well okay then." I rolled over, hoping he would get the point that I wasn't ready to get up yet. He sat down in the chair next to my bed.

"John Clay is perhaps the greatest thief that ever existed."

"Oh, Lord, can't we do this later?"

"He chooses a target, moves close by, and can spend a year, two years in one case, closing in on it, making preparations, and then he takes it. He always steals from a private collector; considers himself some sort of Robin Hood, I would imagine. He has made an art out of beating security systems. He studies them and can always find a way to get around them. He's been all over the world: Paris, Johannesburg, Buenos Aires, Los Angeles, and Calcutta. I always vowed to myself that if he came to London that I would not miss the opportunity to ensnare him."

"And you have reason to believe he is in the area."

"Yes. I have seen his mark on a few small crimes in the area."

I looked around the room. "Where's my computer? This would be perfect for my blog." I wasn't able to keep a straight face for long. Sherlock seemed so abhorred I had to smile. "Actually, maybe my blog could help; I could use it to show you are busy with other things, or bored with nothing to do, just in case he is trying to keep track of you."

"Excellent idea, John! But it will have to wait till later, we've got work to do this morning."

"Ah, so that's why you decided to tell me; you need my help."

"Well, yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, not at all. I'm busy this morning. I promised Mary to clear up her affair today."

"I see." He walked out of the room. I decided that it was useless trying to get any more sleep at this point so I got up and took a shower. When I came down he handed me a mug of coffee.

"A splash of cream, no sugar. Don't worry it's not drugged." He smiled. "I've made some oatmeal, just like you like."

"There's an easier way to do this, you know." The coffee tasted burnt and the oatmeal was like soup, but I held my tongue.

"Do what?"

"I guess sometimes actions can speak louder than words."

I arrived at the street of Mary's incidents just after nine. She had not called me to say she was on her way yet so I decided to look into the offices of the Red Theatre League. It seemed to be the only connection Mary had with the block in question, so I thought there might be something there. The door to the offices was open but there was no one to be seen inside. There was a large desk directly in the door with an open doorway behind it that led to a larger room that contained the desks and office equipment of the business. To the left of the front desk was another door which was slightly ajar. I thought this was probably just a restroom but decided to have a look. It was not, in fact, just a restroom; it led to a small apartment, a Murphy bed on one wall and a small kitchenette in one corner. It was obviously being lived in. There was another door, this one closed, on the wall that would lead back behind the back office room I had seen. Just then a young woman came in.

"I have your coffee Mr. Morstan…who are you?" asked the woman.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude…I was looking for Andrew," I said, trying to think quickly.

"Andrew's not here. He's in America."

Mr. Morstan came out of the bathroom at this time.

"Ah, thank you Jeanie," he said. The phone rang in the other room and Jeanie went to answer it. "And who is this?"

"Sorry sir, I was looking for Andrew," I said. "I thought this was maybe a restroom. My hands were a little sticky, was just going to wash them off."

"You can use that restroom there."

"Thank you, sir." I went and washed my hands even though I didn't actually need to. That had to be Mary's father, I kept thinking, but why was he here at the offices? From the looks of the bathroom he had been staying here for some time. "Thank you again, I'll be off and out of your way now."

"You're welcome, Dr. Watson. It is Dr. John Watson, is it not?"

"Yes. Have we met?"

"No, but Mary mentioned you."

"Mary!?"

"Yes. She called me last night. I haven't heard such joy in her voice for quite some time. She told me how she had sought out Sherlock Holmes for her bicyclist case and how his friend, the good Dr. John Watson, had come to her aide though Mr. Holmes had not." I was speechless, but Mr. Morstan continued after a moments pause. "The matter is quite simple and ridiculous, Dr. Watson. The thing is I am deathly allergic to bees. My new vineyard caretaker has started keeping bees; he assures me the honey will be worth it, and I certainly have the money to pay for his hobby as long as I can keep away from them. Some of the bees got into the walls of the house, however, and built a hive there. They were appearing in the house regularly and I was losing sleep. Mary is so stressed over this show she is in I didn't want her to know. I had purchased this apartment for her, but she refuses to use it, so I have been using it. My wife is visiting her relatives in America at the moment, so I thought using this place would be more discreet than a hotel, and why not, it's perfectly comfortable enough for one man. I hired the cyclist to make sure she didn't come in here and find me out. It all seems terribly stupid when said out loud. She's so smart; I didn't expect her to notice she was being watched. I'm surprised she didn't recognize the cyclist; it is her cousin, Archie, who lives with us at the estate."

"No, that all seems quite reasonable. She will be glad to know there is no danger."

"She doesn't need to know, please, Dr. Watson. I am moving back to the estate today. I am assured the bees have been cleared out. You are free to say you had a talk with the cyclist and that he was just a crazy fan. It's mostly true."

"Okay, certainly, if that's what you wish." I received a text from Mary saying she was on her way. "That's her. I'll go meet her at the theatre. Good day, Mr. Morstan."

"You as well, Dr. Watson. I feel much more comfortable returning to the estate knowing that Mary has such a man looking after her here. I hope we shall meet again."

I met Mary at the theatre. All I told her was that I had talked with the cyclist and he was upset to hear that he had caused her grief and would not be following her anymore, on the street at least, but still following her career. She was happy to hear this. She also agreed to have dinner with me again that evening. Soon after I left the theatre I received a text from Sherlock, "If you are done with the cyclist meet me at Bart's. Fresh body. SH." He was most amused about my morning, but he tried to hide it. I believe he also tried to hide a bit of pride in me that I had connected the Red Theatre League with the events; he still has to be the smartest person in the room, or should I say the only smart person in the room. The 'fresh body' was a well known thief; he had already served a couple of prison sentences. He was stabbed repeatedly. There was nothing else significant about the body, but I did make note of a small, old wound on the nape of his neck which resembled a sting from a wasp or a bee.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

On looking back at the first part of this narrative I realize I have spent much more time on myself and Mary Morstan than I have on Sherlock Holmes, the man you are most likely reading this to find out about. I have only done so because the events which I have related had a direct effect on what was about to happen. Some of the more religious or spiritual among us may say that it was all part of some divine/cosmic plan. Sherlock would hold out that it is these coincidences in life which make it interesting and worth living. I will gladly stay out of the matter all together and let you draw your own conclusions.

The rest of that dreadfully hot summer was much happier for everyone around me. Mrs. Hudson returned from her sister's in good spirits. I was in such a state of bliss with Mary that nothing Sherlock said could irk me in the least. I continued to make house calls and to help Sherlock. It was nice to be able to examine and help live people and not just dead people all the time. Mary's show got poor reviews and closed after a short run, but she did not seem too upset by it. Most reviews blamed the production staff and had good things to say about the cast itself. Sherlock continued to hunt his thief, reveling in the game once more. I was happy that this foe had no need to hire assassins or strap bombs to people.

It was starting to cool down and turn to fall when Lestrade called Sherlock as we were having our coffee one morning. I can always tell when it is Lestrade calling by the way Sherlock answers the call:

"What do you have for me?…Address?...Nothing taken?...A body! Really?...We'll be right there."

"Where is it?" I asked.

"A jewelry store. No alarm sounded, but there's a dead body."

"You think it's Clay?"

"I don't know. It doesn't seem right. Jewelry's not his style. I hope you can join me."

"Ready when you are."

The jewelry store was a short ride away and the crime scene was still fresh. The owner of the store had been notified but had not yet arrived. Lestrade informed us that there was only the one door in and out of the store, no back entrance or windows. There was no sign of a forced entry so the burglar must have picked the locks. The dead man had been identified as the assistant manager of the store. Sherlock examined the sidewalk and the door, then we went in. The first thing you saw on entering was the bottom of the dead fellow's shoes, heavy utility type boots. He had been shot in the chest, probably dead fairly instantaneously. Sherlock motioned for me to examine the body.

"I don't see any signs of a struggle, no bruises at all. The only wound seems to be the gunshot wound in the chest. I'd actually say he's been dead a few hours, though that doesn't make sense if he caught the burglar in progress when he came in to work this morning. He's mid-thirties, in good health, looks like he works out and would be able to hold his own in a struggle."

"You're quite right," said Sherlock, "there was no struggle."

Sherlock examined the cases, the alarm system and then moved on to the office where the store's safe was.

"Who found the body?" he asked.

"An employee," said Lestrade, "Lisa Samuels. She's outside." Lestrade took us to Lisa.

"What time did you arrive, Lisa?" Sherlock asked.

"Just before eight. We open at nine but arrive at eight. I like to be early."

"Are you usually the first one here?"

"Yes. When Steve opens everyone is here before him and we all have to wait for him to get here. I can't believe he was the first one here today."

"Did you work yesterday?"

"No, I was off."

"Do you know what manager closed last night?"

"Yes, I was in the area and stopped in to say hello. It was Steve."

"The dead man?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about closing procedures."

"First we take the most valuable merchandise to the safe. Then, as the manager on duty counts the money and settles the drawers, we clean. The shelves, the glass, everything. Mr. Wilson likes a clean store."

"Mr. Wilson?"

"The store's owner. Then we all wait until everything is done and we all leave together. The manager enters the security code and we have two minutes to get out before it is activated"

"Do you clean the front door and safe as part of that ritual?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"What do you think?" asked Lestrade. "Is this your man, this Clay you're after?"

"No," said Sherlock, "but it's fairly simple I imagine so I can stay and clear it up for you."

"Simple! But the burglar didn't take anything, there's nothing to go on to find him."

"Oh, you already have your burglar. The question is who shot him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look at the body. It's facing away from the door. To get into that position he would have had to come in the door, get around the burglar, without any struggle, and then get shot. He's wearing heavy utility boots and is obviously not dressed for work. Add to that the fact that the alarm system, a very expensive alarm system, did not go off. This is the type of alarm system that, once set, can not be over-ridden by anybody in anyway. Both the front door and all the cases have been opened without a scratch, no forced entry. The most valuable pieces are in the safe, but it obviously hasn't been touched as it was cleaned last night and no prints are to be seen on it, even gloves leave smudges most of the time. Whoever the burglar was he knew the safe was on a clock and could not be opened, at all, between certain hours, so he didn't even bother to look at it, which most criminals would do first thing. They haven't changed the alarm code in some time so the buttons of the code are well worn, but the buttons with the freshest deposits on them are not the same ones as those of the code. As Assistant Manager Steve left last night he pushed the incorrect code so the alarm was not set and he could return later. Steve might not have known it but I'm sure that the system probably keeps a log of the codes entered so that should be easy to verify. Then there's the carpet."

"The carpet?" I asked, not knowing what the carpet could possibly reveal.

"It's not as conclusive, but it corroborates everything else. It's very new, very plush. It springs back very quickly; you can't tell at all where we have been walking. But the body, as you said, John, has been there for a few hours. His body has matted down the carpet to the point where it no longer springs back."

"So who do you think killed him?" asked Lestrade.

"I think Mr. Wilson can tell us that, and I believe this is him."

"Are you Mr. Wilson?" asked Lestrade.

"Yes. Oh my! This is just awful! Poor Steven!"

"Have you ever had any problems with the security system before?"

"No, none at all. It's just horrible, isn't it?"

"Did you sleep well, last night, Mr. Wilson?" asked Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, did I what?"

"Did you sleep well?"

"Why, yes, I did. What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has to do with everything! You suffer from insomnia, don't you? There is an empty bottle, along with a brand new bottle, of medication on your desk with a prescription and receipt in your name; a very popular brand of insomnia medication. You forgot to take your medicine home with you yesterday, but you didn't realize it until it was too late and you thought the store would be secured, didn't you? So you couldn't sleep last night and decided to take a walk, probably so you wouldn't wake your wife (wedding ring). You've had to do this before at night so you bought a hand gun to carry with you, just in case. A ballistics test will confirm the bullet came from your weapon, which I'm sure a man of your type would have registered and completely legal. The address on the prescription indicates that you live a short distance from here, on the other side of that park. There was no rain last night but it is obvious that your shoes and the cuffs of your pants have recently been wet. You came by here, saw Steve inside, and instead of calling the police you decide to approach him yourself. This is most likely because you have been upset with Steve lately; you don't like his gambling and drinking, and possibly he had been visited by some of his more unsavory associations in the store, so seeing him in the store, stealing from you, made you angry. You came in, there are clearly two sets of fingerprints on the door (the employees make sure everything is spotless before they leave), one long and slim like Steve's, the other shorter and wider, like yours (easily proven). You confronted Steve, and shot him. Then you realized what you had done and panicked, so you ran home in the shortest way possible, across the park. Our current city park manager is a tiny bit obsessive-compulsive and has ordered that all the parks be watered at the exact same time, four o'clock in the morning, even though this is bad for the water pressure. The sprinklers got your shoes and cuffs wet, but I doubt you noticed it at the time. You've been wringing your hands a lot; they're almost raw, waiting for a call about the break-in. You assumed the police would figure that Steve had got here first (though we have been informed he is usually the last one to arrive), had interrupted the burglar, and got shot that way, which of course they did, and you could come down after they called, waiting long enough to make it seem like you had been getting dressed though it's clear you have been wearing those clothes for some time, and help confirm their story. Good day, Lestrade. Please keep me informed of any other burglaries."

We left the store, got a cab, and started back to Baker Street.

"Okay," I said, "there was obviously a smell of alcohol on the man, but how do you know he gambled?"

"First of all he obviously needed money, and quickly. He could be behind on his rent or credit cards, but most people would rather declare bankruptcy than turn to crime. So I checked his hands."

"His hands?"

"They were very smooth. He didn't do a lot of hard labor so his hands were un-callused, except for the outsides of his thumbs where they were callused from…"

"Shuffling cards."

"It takes a lot of shuffling to create calluses like that, so he was obviously addicted."

It was getting late in the year and had turned cold before we heard about the next big burglary. Sherlock continued to help on a murder here and there, and I continued to blog about them in case this man Clay was reading. It was another early morning when a news story caught Sherlock's attention. A lumber yard had been broken into, trashed, and burglarized. He immediately called Lestrade. He was busy with some experiment so he asked me to dial the number and put it on speaker-phone.

"Lestrade."

"I need you to get me into the lumber yard. Why didn't you tell me there had been a break-in?"

"It's not my division. I only just heard about it myself and was just about to call you."

"I need to get in. We'll meet you there."

"I can't just let you in to someone else's crime scene."

"Well who's in charge then?"

"Bradstreet."

"Ugh! Will you talk to her for me?"

"Yes, but it's not going to be easy, you know. Not after the wild goose chase you sent her on last time. Good morning John, by the way."

"Good morning, Greg," I said. "I was on that goose chase with her as well, you know. I wouldn't let you help again either if I were her."

"I had to send her somewhere," said Sherlock. "She was in the way."

"Head down there," said Lestrade. "I'll try to 'sweet talk' her, but be nice this time. Maybe I can get her to let John in if not you."

The lumber yard was a good distance from Baker Street, in the southern part of the city, but traffic was light and we made good time. It was a small yard, looked like a family-run type of establishment. We had to push through the usual crowd of gawkers and on-lookers to get to the building where we were met by a policeman.

"We're here to see Detective Inspector Bradstreet," said Sherlock.

"Your names sir?" asked the policeman.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

"One moment please." He radioed it in and a moment later Detective Inspector Bradstreet came out to meet us.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," she said, "here we are again."

"Detective Inspector Bradstreet," said Sherlock, trying to sound as polite as he could.

"Nice to see you again, Dr. Watson."

"You as well, Detective," I said.

"You're lucky, Mr. Holmes. I owe Lestrade a favor, otherwise I would be inclined to send you back to where you came from, but he says this is important to you, so in you come."

We went in and Sherlock had his look around the place. The criminals had made a nice mess of the place, wiping shelves clear of their contents and slicing open bags of concrete mix and sand. We walked through the building, then out the back dock to the lumber yard where the bolt of the gate had obviously been cut, and back into the building to a pile of sand.

"There are foot prints in this sand," said Sherlock. "Have photos been taken?"

"Yes," said Bradstreet. Sherlock stood motionless.

"Is it him?" I asked.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"Him who?" asked Bradstreet.

"John Clay," I responded.

"John Clay! Are you sure? He's in London!"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Do they have any security cameras?"

"No," said Bradstreet. "They have an alarm system, but it was disabled. Not sure how they got in without tripping it, all the doors are wired."

"Through there." Sherlock pointed at a skylight.

"How do you know it's Clay?"

"Clay only steals small stuff for one reason: he needs it in order to steal the larger stuff he's after. They had a large truck, that's how they carried away all the lumber and got onto the roof, but they didn't steal anything big that they could sell; all of the heavy tools and equipment are still over there next to the wall, untouched. Clay climbed on top of the truck and onto the roof and came in through the skylight. He disabled the alarm, his specialty, grabbed a bolt cutter, and went and opened the back dock garage door and the gate. While he loaded the lumber he had his accomplice, probably someone local who knew the lay of the store, come in and grab the stuff he needed from in here. The accomplice had a little too much fun, though; I'm surprised he's not dead, but then maybe he is. Most likely it was the accomplice who owned the truck, so Clay needed him alive. You have his footprints here in this sand, but this isn't just any sand, it's swimming pool filter sand. Find a man with pool filter sand on his boots and in his truck and you have your accomplice." Something on the register counter caught Sherlock's attention. "Who uses this register? Bring them in here." An officer brought over two nice looking people in their early sixties and a younger woman in her late thirties or early forties.

"This is Mr. and Mrs. Avery, the store owners," explained Bradstreet, "and Margaret Jameson, their only other front-of-house employee."

"Mr. Avery, can you get me a precise list of everything that was taken?"

"Yes," said Mr. Avery with confidence in his voice.

"You're sure?"

"Yes. This is our slow season so we always take inventory around this time. We just did it last week; our records should still be accurate."

"Good! Send it to Detective Inspector Bradstreet as soon as you can. Who worked the register last night?" asked Sherlock.

"I did," answered Mrs. Avery.

"Everything on this counter is nice and straight except this box of cards. Do you remember leaving them like that?"

"No, I like things to be lined up."

"What are they?"

"They are customer reward cards, for our loyal customers. We write down each purchase they make, then, when they spend so many pounds, we give them a gift certificate."

Sherlock started looking through the cards. "Can you look up purchases on the computer, to verify them?"

"Yes," said Mr. Avery. "I can do that right here." He went over to the cash register. Sherlock was flipping through the cards and every so often would pull one out. Mr. Avery knew his system well and was able to tell him just as fast whether they were legitimate. I looked at the cards he had pulled out and saw he was looking for people who had been in the store several times in the past few weeks.

"Ah! Here we are!" Sherlock exclaimed as he found a card. "What about this one?"

"No," said Mr. Avery, "this last purchase is not in the system. Who's handwriting is that?"

"Looks like a Mr. Turner decided to give himself a few extra points while he was ransacking your store. The address is on the back here, Bradstreet."

"I know Mr. Turner," said Ms. Jameson, the Avery's employee. "He has been in a lot lately. He said he bought a new moving van, to make some money on the side, and has been fixing and 'sprucing' it up."

"Excellent. He'll have pool filter sand on his boots and in the truck. It hasn't rained lately and I doubt he would think to wash them for just a little sand. That is if he's still alive." This statement rather shocked the Averys and Ms. Jameson, but we were on our way out and left Bradstreet to smooth it over. We were out the door when Bradstreet caught up to us.

"Sherlock," she shouted, "I'd like to have a word with you, alone." I turned to leave but Sherlock grabbed my coat sleeve.

"We are alone," he said.

"All right then. If this really is John Clay I'm not going to let a silly little thing like what you did to me the last time stand in the way. Even _helping_ to catch him would be a gold star on my record. I know you like to work closely with Detective Inspector Lestrade, but, as long as there are no other murders, this is my case. I will be happy to work with you and keep you in the loop if you'll extend the same courtesy to me."

"Certainly. Tell me if you find this Mr. Turner alive and when you get the list of what was stolen we'll go over it together. When you find Turner tell the press you have your man, don't make any mention of Clay; we need him to think we don't know he's here. Good day, Detective."

"Good day, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson."

We had the list of what was stolen by that evening. Sherlock had pictures of the items printed and they hung scattered across our wall. He stood before them trying to make a connection.

"No date tonight, John?" he asked out of the blue. I think he often hoped I would break up with my girlfriends so he would have my undivided attention once again.

"No, the Morstans are all in the Alps."

"You weren't invited?"

"I was. Little early in our relationship for a week in a secluded mountain cabin with her entire family."

"Ah," he said, but he was no longer listening to me.

It was March before anything else turned up that could possibly be associated with John Clay. Sherlock was certain that he was still in town, I don't know why, but I had started to think he had caught Sherlock's scent and moved on. Then there was a robbery at a car dealership, again in the southern part of the city. Upon arrival Bradstreet informed us that two sports cars had been stolen about half an hour apart from each other. The lot had cameras pointing in every direction, so this time we had something to go on at least, or so we thought. We went to the security office and watched the playback. One moment the cars were there, the next they had vanished into thin air. We watched the footage several times and slowed it down; there was never a sign of any person on the lot.

"Look at that screen there," said Sherlock. "Watch the tree. It was windy last night, but there…." The tree stopped moving.

"He paused them," I said, "or had someone else pause them."

"Could be an inside job, but Clay could certainly get in here and do it himself, so I doubt he would use someone else, and the breaks are long enough for him to move the car somewhere out of sight and come back and restart them. What is wrong with this camera here?" One of the screens was blank.

"The employees say it went out a couple days ago," explained Bradstreet. "There was a technician here about a week ago that said everything checked out fine. The company that sold them the cameras and maintains them denies sending a technician, but they haven't been around to fix this one yet."

"Number five," said Sherlock and he headed outdoors.

"Why would he need two sports cars?" asked Bradstreet.

"He didn't. You'll find those abandoned later today. There, in that row of vans, there's a gap." Sherlock pointed towards a row of used vehicles, mostly vans.

"He stole a used vehicle as well?"

"Where's camera number five?"

Bradstreet checked the map of the lot she had been given. "It would be this one here," she indicated the pole closest to us. "The one that would be pointed towards the used vehicles. The sports cars are just a distraction."

"John, give me a lift." The camera pole had metal rungs, but they started a fair distance from the ground, so I had to lift Sherlock up until he could reach them. He climbed up the pole, dismounted the camera, and then came back down. He opened the camera up; it looked as if a bomb had exploded inside. "He used a small timed explosive."

"The technician was Clay," I said.

"Yes. He comes a week ago, posing as a technician, puts an explosive in this camera, a few days later it goes off disabling the camera, so it can't even be proved for sure that a vehicle was sitting in that spot. We'll need to find out what kind of vehicle it was and ask every employee who saw the 'technician.'"

"The 'technician' came between four and five in the morning, so no one was here to see him," said Bradstreet. "He can be seen on a few of the cameras but his face is always concealed. Finding out what vehicle it was will be difficult because the cameras only keep forty-eight hours worth of footage. Add to that the fact that their computers were hacked and the entire inventory erased."

"They didn't have it backed up?" I asked.

"Yes, but so far the computers are refusing to restore it. We have people working on it."

"Oh, clever!" said Sherlock as he turned to leave. "I'll be in touch."

Now I realize I have gotten a little ahead of myself. I must go back and tell you of a most extraordinary event which occurred on New Year's Eve. I had been invited, by Mary, to the Morstan Estates to celebrate the New Year. It was a lovely evening, unseasonably warm but with just the right amount of chill in the air. The main Morstan house was a huge, rambling Tudor mansion; it faced south and you could just see the glow of London in the distance behind it. Vineyards lay on one side of the house and stretched out in the back beyond the yard. Out in the vineyards was the caretakers 'cottage,' which I should also have labeled a mansion if I hadn't been told it was a cottage, and a number of other small buildings used for various things. On one side of the main house there was a large patio area surrounded by a pergola. Beyond this there was a wide, elliptical reflecting pool. It was nearly midnight and Mary and I had bundled up and were sitting on a bench beside the pool. She had declared that this was her favorite spot for watching her father's annual New Year's firework display. The rest of the party was on the patio where a great fire burned and space heaters warmed it enough that they didn't even need coats. The fireworks started at five minutes till midnight, and it was warm enough that the reflecting pool was not frozen over. The wind was calm so we could see every colorful explosion twice, once in the air and once in the water. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect setting.

"Mary," I said, "I know we haven't known each other for all that long, but I've never been surer of anything in my life." I got down on one knee and took out the ring which, thankfully, I had managed to sneak out of my blazer pocket and into my coat pocket before we came out. "Will you marry me?"

"John, yes, of course I will!" she said as the great explosion that ushered in the New Year went on above us. She pulled me up and hugged me and I could see on the patio that no one was paying any attention to the fireworks.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

After the fireworks, the hugs, the kisses, the hand shakes, and the words of congratulations Mary and I finally found ourselves on the road back to London. We were both so entirely overwhelmed and exhausted that we had barely spoken a word, or at least I thought those were the reasons.

"John," Mary broke the silence, "I don't know how to say this so I'm just going to throw it out there. I don't want there to be any secrets between us already. I've always wanted a small wedding in my father's conservatory with a larger reception outside. I've always wanted my wedding to be in April, but I don't want to wait a whole year to have it, which would only give us four months, but I don't want to rush you."

"I'm fine with four months and the wedding should be wherever you want it to be."

"Good." She still seemed very nervous. "Andrew has been my best friend for as long as I can remember, in fact he's like a brother to me. I've never had a lot of girlfriends, and never one I would have called my best friend, so I was thinking we could each just have one attendant; mine would be Andrew and I was hoping yours could be your sister, so it's sort of a family affair."

"But Andrew isn't actually your family." I knew what she was trying to say, but I didn't want to argue about it either, at least not at three in the morning in a car. "I'm just not that close to my sister. I mean, we're getting along fine right now, but you know as well as I that that can change with the next drink." I paused to gather my thoughts. "I know what you're afraid of. I know you don't like Sherlock and I can understand being afraid he will do something…weird, but he is my best friend, the only best friend I've ever had."

"I just don't understand it. He's so selfish; he treats you so poorly. He can't even remember my name half the time. And what would he say in the toast?"

"If you think he treats me poorly you should see how he treats other people. I'll talk to him. I'll write the toast for him; he'll just have to read it. He's an excellent actor. I can control him during the ceremony, and Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, and maybe even Mycroft can handle him during the reception."

"Okay. I know; I'm sorry. You should have who you want as your best man." The truth is the thought had crossed my mind and I was a little worried about it too. After a few minutes Mary broke the silence once more: "Will you move in with me?"

"You mean when we're married? Of course."

"No, now. Let's move in together. Most people these days move in long before they get engaged."

This is something I hadn't ever thought of: moving out of 221B Baker Street. I had no idea how Sherlock would respond to this. Would he be able to afford to live there alone? Mrs. Hudson depended on our rent (didn't she?), even though she gave us a great price. Without my assistance he tended to take cases without a thought of compensation. Would he look for a new flatmate? Was there anyone else in London, or on Earth for that matter, that could live with him?

"Sure," I said. "Let's move in together."

When we arrived back at Mary's flat we spent the rest of the night talking and planning. It wasn't until after eight o'clock that I headed back to Baker Street to get some rest and start packing. When I reached the flat Sherlock was sitting at the table reading a paper and Mrs. Hudson was cleaning up the breakfast dishes.

"You have good news," said Sherlock.

"Yes," I said. He looked up from his paper.

"And you haven't slept a wink."

"No." At this Mrs. Hudson perked up and looked at me. I took a deep breath. "I asked Mary to…marry me, and she said yes."

"Oh, how wonderful, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson as she rushed over to hug and kiss me. "I like that Mary. Smart as a whip! And pretty too. Beauty and brains. You make such a handsome couple. The babies will be just adorable!"

"Yes," I hesitated, "babies."

"Congratulations, John," said Sherlock. I don't think I have ever seen him more confused. Maybe he was even frightened.

"Sherlock, I would like you to be my best man." I honestly don't think he knew for a minute what that actually meant; he had to search through his 'mind palace.'

"I'd be honored, thank you," he said a little coldly.

"Yes, umm, you're welcome. I have some more news. Mary and I are moving in together."

Sherlock looked around the room. "It will be a bit crowded, but I think we can manage. I mean, I imagine she'll be sharing your room."

I feigned some laughter in an attempt to lighten the mood. "No, we won't be moving in _here_. I'll be moving in to her place."

"Oh, yes, of course," said Sherlock. This may be the one and only time I've been a step ahead of him. "When will you be doing that?"

"Soon, maybe even starting later today."

"Oh, my, we sure will miss having you around," said Mrs. Hudson. "Won't we, Sherlock?" I was suddenly very glad she was there. "But we're just so happy for you, aren't we, Sherlock?"

"Yes, happy." He went back to reading his paper. I said I needed to get some rest and excused myself. When I awoke a little after noon Sherlock had gone out and Mrs. Hudson was in her own apartment. Standing in that room I knew I would no longer be living in gave me a strange feeling, but I knew I was doing the right thing.

The transition went smoother than I expected. Sherlock didn't seem to mind the difference all that much; he probably didn't even notice I was gone most of the time; he had never taken much notice of my being present or assent before. He continued to call and text me whenever he wanted my help, and I was always happy to oblige. This bothered Mary, but we were still in the stage of our relationship where we could talk things out and not get too mad at each other, and we hoped we would be able to stay that way. I kept my practice up by making house calls. Then the storefront on the ground level of the building Mary and my flat was in emptied out and the building was put up for sale. Mr. Morstan bought the building and offered the storefront to me at a nominal price to use as an office, so I took the opportunity and found myself with a growing private practice. Except for the car theft in March, there was little new news regarding John Clay.

It was just a little over a week before the wedding that I received an early morning call from Sherlock to meet him and Lestrade in the West End, only a little way from our flat. I knew the place I was told to meet them well because it was exactly where Mary's cousin had been following her on his bicycle less than a year ago. (I had told Mary the full story behind the bicyclist, by the way, but to my knowledge she had not told her father that she knew.) It was strange meeting Sherlock at the crime scene and not knowing what to expect or what his thoughts were before I got there. This time, as it turned out, I knew just as much as he did.

"What do we have?" asked Sherlock.

"A dead body in the alley," said Lestrade. "This way."

"Just a dead body? Why call me? Dead bodies are always turning up in alleys."

"This one is connected to John Clay."

"Was there a theft?"

"No, not that we can find."

"Then how do you know it was Clay?"

"Because of that."

"Dear Lord!" I exclaimed. Beside the dead body 'Jon Clay' had been written on the pavement, in blood.

"Evidently he thought John Clay was Jewish," said Lestrade with a smile.

"Maybe he was just saving time," I offered. "He was sort of racing the clock."

"It's…" started Sherlock.

"Richard Black, or Black Dick as he was known. Yes, we know. One of London's most wanted."

Sherlock began looking at the stores around where the body lay. "No one has reported any theft, or a break-in even?"

"No," repeated Lestrade.

On one side, the side the body was closer to, there was a laundromat, a bakery, and the body was directly in front of the door to an electronics store. On the other side was a vacant store, a law office, and directly opposite the body the offices of the Red Theatre League. We must have all stood perfectly still for some time because suddenly the light behind the electronics store went off. As soon as we moved it went back on. There was a surveillance camera above the light.

"We need to see that surveillance tape," said Sherlock.

"Yes, we already called the manager of the electronics store, he's on his way in," said Lestrade.

"John, how long has he been dead?" I had been examining the body.

"Two or three hours at the most. Sherlock, look at this, his hand."

"What is it?"

"It's a bee sting."

"You can tell it's from a bee, not a wasp or hornet."

"Yes, it's irritated, maybe even infected; the stinger is still in there."

"Didn't the first dead man have a bee sting?" asked Lestrade.

A policeman came to tell us that the electronics store manager had arrived at this time and we all went in to have a look at the surveillance footage. We were only going to be disappointed, however. As soon as we walked into the room he informed us we weren't going to see much because the computer indicated that the motion-sensitive light had not come on until the time when police officers had reached the scene. A heavy fog had settled on London in the night and it was so thick that the motion detector could not see anything more than a few inches from it. We watched all the footage from the estimated time of death but all we could see was fog or blackness.

Thankfully nothing else occurred before the wedding, or I might have been the one laying in the morgue and Mary the one trying to escape Sherlock's grasp. Sherlock and I arrived at the Morstan Estate early in the morning on the day of the wedding, as had been instructed to us; Mary had spent the last few days there, and I had had to resist the urge to spend those nights in Baker Street. Sherlock was on his best behavior, which seemed to calm Mary. Everything was going great until her cousin, Archie, came down in only his boxer underwear. He was obviously hung over and he was supposed to be the in charge of coordinating the caterers for the event, and they would be arriving soon. He opened the fridge and drank milk straight from the bottle. Mary practically had steam coming out her ears.

"Where's the coffee?" he asked, though the pot was sitting right in front of him. Mrs. Morstan handed him a canister. He opened it and took out a spoonful of coffee grinds and ate them. Suddenly Sherlock decided to make small talk.

"How long have you been living here at the Estate, Archie?" he asked.

"A little over a year. Why?" snarled Archie.

"Interesting. I hear your learning the vintner craft."

"Who are you?"

"John's friend. Where were you before here? You sound American, California I would guess."

"I was raised in Cali, yes. Lately I've been travelling around. My stupid parents refused to give me any more money unless I came here and 'learned the trade.' They own a winery there."

"How are the grapes this year?"

"It's a little early to tell, but I think they would be a lot better if Gene hadn't pruned them so harshly."

"Gene?"

"Our new caretaker," answered Mr. Morstan. "He assures us we will thank him later in the year."

"Poor Mr. Jones, our old caretaker, would be appalled at what he's done," said Mary.

"I never liked Mr. Jones," said Mrs. Morstan. "He gave me the creeps."

"What happened to Mr. Jones?" I asked.

"He had a heart-attack, about a year-and-a-half ago," answered Mr. Morstan. "Only in his fifties. It was shortly after you came to live with us, wasn't it, Archie?"

"Yes," said Archie.

"Interesting," said Sherlock. With that he let the subject drop. I could tell what he was thinking but refused to bring it up. Archie went to get dressed.

The ceremony was beautiful and flawless. Mary had a natural talent for decorating, and Sherlock played the part of a perfect gentleman as I had instructed. This was the first time I had ever met Andrew. He had flown in just that day with his boyfriend (a different one from when I had first met Mary). We hit it off immediately, and I was happy to confirm with my own eyes and ears that he was not interested in Mary. The weather was lovely so we were able to have the reception out on the patio. The space heaters and fire took any chill there was out of the air. One of London's top restaurants had catered the food. It was all hors d'oeuvre and people could mingle as they ate. Truck after truck had rolled up the driveway that morning and afternoon, but now only three remained, I guess that was all they needed to carry the empty dishes and equipment back, though only two had their logo painted on them, though the third looked much newer than the others but was the same make and model.

All my friends had made it: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Stamford. My sister and I were still on good terms and she was there as well with her date; she happened to be dating a man at that point in time. Most surprising was that Mycroft Holmes had decided to make a rare social appearance. I was very pleased with the turn-out and the jocularity of the group. I was speaking with many of my friends when Mary came up to me and pulled me aside. Sherlock continued to hover near me, despite the glare that Mary was giving him. I think he was unbelievably uncomfortable not being the center of attention.

"Have you seen Archie recently, John?" asked Mary.

"No, I haven't," I replied.

"He is supposed to be organizing getting the cake out now." Then Mr. Morstan came up to us.

"Mary, John," said Mr. Morstan, "I am sorry to take you away from your friends, but I was wanting to present you and with your wedding gift before we cut the cake and start the dance. You're welcome to join us, Mr. Holmes; I would like to know what a man of your knowledge thinks about my collection and its hiding place."

I didn't know what he was talking about at the moment but as we walked he explained to us that he had a secret wine cellar full of some of the rarest bottles of wine on the planet. This wine cellar was ancient, part of the original structure on the property, all the rest of which had long since crumbled. It had been forgotten for some time, and even built over and inaccessible, but when Mr. Morstan took over the property he remodeled the interior and rediscovered it. The cellar was very small, he told us, but the collection it contained was worth millions. This wine cellar was not even indicated on the blueprints of the house, so no one except he and his wife knew exactly where it was or how to get to it. I had seen his large wine cellar and could only imagine what a secret one would contain, though I must admit I am no wine connoisseur. He led us down hallways, through doors, and finally through a secret passage that led down a narrow stairway with a couple ninety-degree turns in it. There were only a few bare bulbs to light the way (the extent of Mr. Morstan's electrical abilities, he assured us), but as we neared the cellar door, which was triple padlocked, we could here a loud hum.

"It must be heavily secured," I said. "That is quite the electrical hum."

"Actually, no," said Mr. Morstan. "There are only a few motion detectors inside that are controlled from this panel. I'll turn them off." He entered a code but the hum did not stop. "That's odd." He began to unlock the locks, then to open the door. Suddenly Sherlock jumped out from behind me and threw himself against the door. Mr. Moran was shocked.

"Don't open that!" said Sherlock.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?" I asked. "Why not?"

"Bees!" he exclaimed. Mary was giving me quite the stare.

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Morstan.

"The room is filled with bees. The bees are too small to set off the motion detectors, but if there were enough of them they could create such a cloud that the detectors could not see other things moving inside the cellar. That system is the same brand as at the electronics store."

"John Clay!" I said.

"Yes! He always steals from private holders. All that material from the lumber yard, and the shovels and the pick-axes. He's been digging a tunnel and he figured tonight would be the perfect night to strike; everyone would be distracted with the wedding. Mr. Morstan, are there any blueprints, anywhere, that show this wine cellar."

"Yes, legally there have to be, but we keep them in a safe at the offices of the Red Theatre League," Mr. Morstan answered.

"That's why nothing was stolen, he just broke into the League and looked at the blueprints," I said.

"He must have gotten scared that he had missed his estimated mark, wanted to know for sure," said Sherlock.

"But how would he have known about the secret cellar at all?" asked Mary.

"Probably Mr. Jones, hard to tell though. Mrs. Morstan certainly had a bad feeling about him," answered Sherlock.

"How's he going to get the wine out of here?" I asked.

"The unmarked van. It was pulling out a little before we started down here. He knew what caterer you had chosen so he found out what kind of vans they used and stole one."

"But why leave it unmarked? Surely he could have copied the logo."

"If he had marked it the caterers would have noticed it wasn't theirs and aroused suspicion. This way they didn't take any notice of it and everyone else assumed it was theirs. If it was just pulling out that means he had just started to unload the cellar; there's still time." Sherlock started running up the stairs and I right behind him, though it was a little difficult to run in those slippery shoes (the one part of the outfit we had selected that Sherlock had refused to wear).

We must have been quite the sight to see, running around the house. Molly informed me later that when they saw Sherlock running with me in close pursuit, and Mary right behind me (luckily she had worn flat shoes so as not to appear too much taller than me), Lestrade said "Oh, Lord! What's he done now?" As Sherlock passed them he yelled "Call Bradstreet!" and I yelled "John Clay!" Lestrade made the call, and then he was right behind us. The crowd had condensed into a small circle and when Mr. Morstan reached them he explained, as best he could, what was happening. At the edge of the vineyard Sherlock stopped and we all caught up.

"What's going on?" asked Lestrade.

"There stealing the wine," I replied.

"Mary, are there any buildings that are not used that could store a large amount of lumber and serve as the starting point for a tunnel and not be noticed?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, there's an old storage shed, it's that direction. There is a road that goes out the other direction, but it's much longer and eventually leads back to the main road."

We ran through the vineyard as fast as we could, spreading out hoping someone would find the fastest path. We could see the vans headlights and the driver was still behind the wheel and keeping a lookout with a flashlight. He saw us coming from quite a distance yet and took off. The man who turned out to be John Clay was left running behind him, saw us, and turned into the vineyards.

"That's Gene, the caretaker!" Mary shouted.

Clay had an intimate knowledge of those vineyards (thanks to his zealous pruning) and was soon out ahead of us heading to cut off the van, in hopes of jumping in it I suppose, though with Bradstreet coming from the other direction it was hopefully a lost cause by now. We all continued to chase him though, not wanting him to have any chance of getting away. He came out of the vineyards at about the same time as Sherlock and I did, but he was at the far end of the elliptical pool and we were in the middle. We ran with all the energy we could muster and were gaining on him. Then Mary came out of the vineyard and started to run right across the water. It was a reflecting pool, of course, so it was only a few inches deep, and it was much longer around than it was wide. She intercepted Clay on the other side and tackled him, just as the van roared past, going as fast as it could manage on that bumpy trail. It reached the drive and turned towards the entrance. Then we heard gunshots and saw the van swerve and hit a tree. Archie had shot the tires out; he had learned to be an excellent marksman somewhere in his travels. I don't think I was the only one who had thought that it was Archie driving the van.

I went and tended to Mary, she had dislocated her shoulder but it popped right back in and didn't seem to bother her. Sherlock held Clay while Lestrade tended to the driver. The local police and Bradstreet arrived within minutes. Mary and I sat ourselves down on the bench on which I had proposed to her.

"It's too bad," I said. "You were going to donate that dress to charity. I doubt they'll take it now.'

"I think I'll have it preserved now," she said, "as a memorial to our exciting beginnings. Maybe someday our daughter will want to wear it." Again with the babies. Mr. and Mrs. Morstan came over to us at this time.

"Thank you, John," said Mr. Morstan.

"Yes, thank you," said Mrs. Morstan.

"Me?" I asked. "I barely did anything. It's your daughter you need to thank, Mr. and Mrs. Morstan."

"Please, call me William," he said.

"And Judith," she said.

"We must thank you for bringing out the best in our little girl. You two will be good for each other."

"I think the dance is about to start," said Mrs. Morstan, "and we should cut the cake!"

"I think you're absolutely right, mother," said Mary.

When we got over to the patio we cut the cake and they started the music. Mary and I danced, and then Mary and her father danced while I danced with Mrs. Hudson. Then Mary walked straight over to Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, "may I have this dance?"

"Only if you call me Sherlock, Mrs. Watson," he replied.

"All right, Sherlock, and you must call me Mary."

I danced with Molly Hooper, but my eyes were on Mary and Sherlock. I could tell that they were talking and actually enjoying each other. To this day neither has succumbed to my numerous attempts to find out what they talked about.


End file.
